For Those We Love (We Would Do Anything)
by E. J. Morgan
Summary: What would you do for someone you love unconditionally to make them happy? Of John, Mycroft, Lestrade, Molly and Mrs. Hudson is asked a very difficult thing: to let go.
1. Chapter 1

It was a sunny, uncharacteristically warm day in mid-August in London. Sherlock and John had been called to a crime scene by Lestrade where a woman of about 60 years of age had been murdered probably sometime late in the evening the day before. The Scotland Yard was unable to make anything of the location though and had absolutely nothing to go by anyway to start their investigation, so they – as so often before – had turned to the world's one and only Consulting Detective for help.

It only took Sherlock about half an hour snooping around on the scene to make his deductions which he then – as costumery with a tone that indicated total lack of consideration to others' feelings – shared with his attentive but somewhat exasperated audience. Anyway, they now had a pretty good idea where to look to find their supposed murderer: a muscular, tall man, of about 35 years that had, at the time of committing the crime – sport sneakers (size 9), a grey-black striped pullover and old, baggy jeans on. He was bald but had worn a wig (with artificial, 6-inch long brown hair) during the murder and had at least two missing teeth.

Sherlock waited somewhat patiently (well, patiently for him, at least) for Anderson to scribble down these details ("Really, this all should have been obvious from the start even for dumb heads like you, Anderson!") then promptly turned on his heels and left the room to look around the other parts of the abandoned two-story penthouse for more possible clues.

His long coat and blue scarf positively billowed after him as he was leaving with long, deliberate strides.

"Why the hell does he always have a coat on anyway, even in the middle of the summer when it's at least 77° and everyone else is content in just a T-shirt?" – asked Sally Donovan angrily from practically no one, having been insulted by Sherlock at least three times during the short period of time they had spent in the room together. "I swear, he does it just so he can make a greater impression on us!"

"You're wrong, you know" – answered John sadly from his position kneeling on the floor beside the victim. He was the only other person remaining in the room, but Sally, in her annoyed state, hadn't realized his presence and jumped in surprise at his tone. "Believe me: this has nothing to do with him wanting to antagonize anyone. He's just cold. All the time."

"Why would anyone be cold in this weather? It's nonsense!"

"Well, he is cold. He hasn't got any meat on him to keep him warm. Also, at this stage, he probably also has a serious problem with his circulation…" – John looked like every word he said pained him badly.

"I really don't have any idea what you're talking about, John. The Freak is skinny, I give you that but surely it's not that serious."

"It is. Believe me. He has literally stopped eating altogether. He's not well, and the way you all treat him – especially you and Anderson – doesn't help matters!" – retorted John with what looked like unshed, angry tears in his eyes but of course Sally couldn't be sure of that. It was a little dark in the room after all.

"Well, if that's true then why don't you help him? Clearly, he has problems."

"Don't you think we have tried everything? Lestrade, Mycroft, me… We love him, Sally, and we told him over and over again that we're there for him, that he can come to us, talk to us… Nothing helps; he just doesn't wish to live anymore! He just doesn't… Mycroft even tried to have him admitted to a hospital's psychiatric ward. It was a catastrophe… He tried to kill himself there with a paper clip! He sliced his wrists with that damn thing and could barely be saved… After that we had a long talk with him and we accepted that he wants to be left alone, to make his own decisions. The only thing we asked of him then was that he doesn't hurt himself that way anymore. He promised and we know tries to keep that promise, too. Sometimes he can't… but mostly he doesn't hurt himself anymore, just exists as long as it is possible without taking care of himself. He doesn't eat, he doesn't even want to sleep… He just wants to work for as long as he is alive and then die and that's it. And there's no damn thing we can do about it!"

"So, you just let him kill himself?" – Sally looked abashed at the revelations and tried to think back at the times she spent in the vicinity of Sherlock to remember whether he had always seemed depressed.

"We're there for him. We let him know that we love him, and that he can change his mind about dying anytime and we will help him. We love him so much, Sally, that we're even able to let him go instead of forcing him to live in a closed ward where he would be undoubtedly kept sedated out of his mind with his suicidal tendencies, being watched all the time, chained to a bed…"

"But why does he want to die? What's wrong with him? Is he anorexic?"

"No, it's not anorexia. It would be so much easier to handle… It's more serious than that. He's in pain… Constantly. Do you think that being that brilliant, that being a genius doesn't come with a price? He explained and I have to admit; I probably couldn't live like that either. Whatever he sees, wherever he looks… he can see things nobody else. He understands everything about people even they themselves don't have a clue about. It's like everything is just spelled out for him, shouted at him all the time inside his head. Words and facts pop into his mind uninvited upon looking at a crime scene or a person and he can't stop it. You know, what you see him do all the time at crime scenes? The deduction of the smallest facts from seemingly insignificant details to perfection? It's not something he can turn on and off at will like a switch of a computer. It is like that for him all the time…"

"Jesus… I can understand how it would be maddening…"

"Yes, well. It's got to be too much for him, he can't bear it anymore. So he either drugs himself out of his mind – what he had, as you very well know, tried to do, years ago – or just gives up. He doesn't want the drugs anymore… Not the ones he gets on the streets, nor the ones prescribed by doctors for him. He can't think with them at all. They don't only make his mind work normally; they also shut it off completely. Make him a vegetating plant… Who would wish that for him? It's not life; we can't do it to him. We have tried and it backfired royally and we swore never to do it, ever again."

"And now you, what, wait for him to die from either starvation or exhaustion?"

"No. We try to make him happy and make him want to live. We plead with him to at least eat enough not to be in pain from hunger… Lestrade gets him access to the most interesting cases he can think of to give him the reason and will to go on. Mycroft organizes family programs so that he won't have the heart to disappoint his parents – who obviously don't know anything – by collapsing in front of them and Mrs. Hudson and I tempt him with food, good books, DVDs… anything we can think of. Nothing really seems to work anymore and we don't know what else to do."

"Mrs. Hudson knows about it, too?" – Sally was surprised. She could understand John Watson and Mycroft Holmes (maybe even Lestrade) but can a man like that be loved by so many?

"We never actually talked with her but I think she has figured out something is going on with Sherlock. I mean, it's pretty obvious he's sick and not getting better."

"Who else?"

"Molly always lets him into the morgue to examine the bodies… I don't know if it's a coincidence or not but by now she has stopped protesting about anything Sherlock does with the victims… She even lets him snuggle out body parts, pretending not to notice a missing eyeball or finger here and there… Mike Stamford grants him access to the labs anytime, even in the middle of the night. I don't know how he could convince the director of the University to give him a key, but fact is that he has somehow got it, and has entrusted it on Sherlock. God, Sally, you really don't understand: everyone bloody loves that idiot! I know very well he can be a jerk sometimes (Sally's eyebrows rose at the) – well, ok, most of the time – but he's a good man and my best friend."

"And he doesn't even realize it, does he? He's not very grateful."

"Don't start! You always just want to see the worst in him. He doesn't do it to hurt us. He's the one suffering here! Actually, I'm pretty sure he has been holding on as well as he has just for us."

"All right, all right… I'm sorry. I admit, I might be a little too harsh on him at times but you have to realize, he doesn't make it easy to get on with him."

John smiled at that. "Yeah, I'm aware of that."

"So, how long do you think…?"

"Not long. He hasn't eaten for over two weeks now. He only weighed 106 pounds the last time I could get him to stand on a scale and I could bet he has lost more weight since then. It would be far too less even if he weren't so freakishly tall…" John looked like he was about to start crying or destroying things right then and there but he gathered himself together, turned around and left to look for Sherlock and get him home and maybe – just maybe – make him eat a little and relax.

Sally just stood there, unable to move or do anything. She wanted so much to tell herself that she didn't care about it all. Why should she? It's only the Freak for God's sake! The one who makes her life miserable, who insults her whenever they happen to be in the same vicinity and whom she despises from her heart… But somehow she didn't seem to be able to entirely convince herself. Somehow, against her will, she felt saddened and guilty, not at all gleeful as it would maybe have been expected of her at the expense of the Consulting Detective.


	2. Chapter 2

John and Sherlock were at home, in 221B Baker Street. This had been their home for over a year now, the place where the two friends felt safest and could relax. And it was exactly what they were doing right now.

John was sitting in his armchair (they had been referring to it as "his" for a while now and the other one in front of it as Sherlock's without ever having actually decided it) and Sherlock was lying on the couch weak and exhausted. He had finally given up on the 'I'm not going to sleep or stop working, leave me alone about it, John'-phase a few days ago, eventually admitting that his body just wouldn't cooperate with his plans anymore and resigning himself to rest and sleep – which were about the only things he had been doing ever since.

He was bundled up in so many blankets that he could barely be seen, and was still shivering uncontrollably, even though it was August and the temperature for London unusually warm.

John had long abandoned any hope of getting him to at least drink a warm tea to make him feel better and did the next best thing he could think of: he got up from the armchair, turned up the heating and put another blanket on the sick man. Not that it did any good to him.

"John, it's all right, I'm fine. Stop fussing."

"Sherlock, you know very well you're everything but fine! Why won't you just-"

"We have talked about it! I'm not going to argue anymore. I'm tired, please, just… Let me be."

"All right." John sighed sadly for what was probably the hundredth time that day and sank back into his chair.

They we're watching some silly crime movie in the television, Sherlock occasionally commenting in its irrationality ("Oh, honestly! It's so obvious! Don't tell me they haven't figured it out yet!", "No, you moron, what you're saying is totally impossible!" or "These are really a bunch of incompetents, even worse than the real detectives of Scotland Yard!") with John laughing half-heartedly at his antics.

After a while Sherlock's comments got less and less and then ceased altogether as he fell into the exhausted sleep of the very ill. Only then did John let fall the tears. Only then could he stop being the brave and strong one. He got up, rearranged the many blankets on his slumbering (and still shivering) best friend, shut off the television and quietly left the room.

He wanted to make a phone call but the person he intended to talk to was quicker: John's phone (previously silenced so as not the disturb Sherlock) started to vibrate as soon as he took it into his hand to dial.

"Mycroft, I was just about to call you."

"I know… ('Well, of course he did', thought John) Tell me, Dr. Watson, how is my little brother?" – Even over the phone it was obvious that Mycroft was not in any better shape than John.

"He's… not good. Oh, God, Mycroft, he really is not good and I can't do a damn thing to help him! I might be a doctor but what good does is do when I can't even help my best friend!?"

"It's not your fault, Dr. Watson. My brother is stubborn, has always been, even as a young boy. It has been obvious from the very beginning he wouldn't accept any help. We have known for a long time this would happen…"

"We're losing him, Mycroft. It won't be long now. Probably a few days if he doesn't eat anything soon. Frankly, I don't know if eating would even help anymore at this stage."

"It probably wouldn't. He won't, anyway. As a said: he has always been stubborn, and decided a long time ago he doesn't want to do it anymore. And we agreed to let it be his decision."

"I know" – John sounded like he had regretted his promise made just a little over a month ago.

"Dr. Watson, I want you to know that I really appreciate everything you've been doing for my brother and that this whole thing is not your fault. There is nothing you could have done differently or better. There just simply isn't. This has been coming for a long time – much longer than you have even known Sherlock. If anything, you have given him reason to hold on longer, to fight a little bit more… You are his best friend, even if he won't ever say it out aloud."

"He is my best friend, too. My very best friend. He has saved my life so many times and in so many ways… I just feel like I should be able to do the same!" – By now he was totally broken, tears falling freely and rolling down his cheeks.

"You have helped him a lot. You can't even imagine how much. Believe me: I know very well what my brother used to be like before meeting you. He was so alone and miserable, it was really heart-breaking. Lestrade has helped him a lot of course, has become somewhat a father-figure to him, but you are his very first real best friend. Please, don't give up on him now."

"I would never!" – exclaimed John, as even the notion of abandoning Sherlock in this state sounded scandalous.

"I know, I know. I apologize, I didn't mean any disrespect. Actually, I was wondering if you think it would be a good idea if I went over to Baker Street tomorrow? I would like to see my brother, before…" – for the first time ever, Mycroft sounded so unsure of himself that John took pity on him.

"Of course, Mycroft. We would be glad to have you here." – John really felt his heart shatter all over again just thinking about how it would probably be the last time the brothers would see each other.

"I thank you. It means a lot. At noon, perhaps?"

"Of course. See you tomorrow"

John felt a little better after the conversation. He was at least not alone with the situation. There were others, too, and they would make it through this together.


	3. Chapter 3

The next day, Mycroft arrived promptly at 12 PM, just like he had promised. For all the complaining he did ("Really, Mycroft, don't tell me you're getting sentimental for your old age?"), Sherlock actually looked touched by the visit of his big brother.

They talked, and Mycroft even told John and Mrs. Hudson (who joined them when she realized there was an – as she called it – 'family-gathering') stories about their childhood – much to Sherlock's embarrassment.

"I wasn't a 'scrawny little thing', Mycroft! For God's sake, quit telling lies about me! I was a perfectly fine-shaped young lad. It's not my fault that you were pudgy enough to make me look small when we were standing next to each other! By the way: how is your diet going? I see you have gained some weight again." – But John was just laughing so hard he nearly fell off his chair, while Mrs. Hudson was cooing about how cute Sherlock must have been as a small child. Mycroft just looked smug.

Later they were joined by Lestrade and Molly who both just coincidently 'happened to be nearby', as they explained. First, they all played Cluedo. Even in his sickened state, Sherlock clearly won all the rounds. Nobody had a chance against him in this game. Mycroft was the only one who could give him a run for his money but in the end, he too was defeated. When everyone decided they had been insulted enough for losing ("Honestly, Lestrade, you call yourself a Detective Inspector? This game was so easy, how could you not know who was the murderer!?"), they switched to poker. In that, Mycroft seemed to be best, for he could cheat without batting an eye. ("Really, what is it with you Homes boys and winning? – complained Lestrade as Sherlock and Mycroft high-fived.)

Mrs. Hudson made sandwiches and they ate while watching Supernatural in the television. Nobody commented on the fact that Sherlock didn't eat a bite. When Molly opened her mouth to begin to say something, she was instantly silenced with identical glares from John and Lestrade.

Halfway during the episode they were watching, Sherlock, who was sprawled out on the couch under a pile of blankets again, fell asleep. The guests took it a clue that it was time to go, so they sadly said their goodbyes, took a last glance at the sleeping detective and one by one left the house. Mycroft was last and – probably for the first time in their adult lives – gave a gentle kiss on the forehead of Sherlock. "Goodbye, little brother, be good. Say hi to Redbeard from me, please." – And he left with a nod to John.

John just stood there for a while longer in the door, thinking about the day and how much fun they had had.


	4. Chapter 4

The next day, Sherlock had trouble waking up. When he finally did, he was disoriented and so very tired, he almost instantly fell back asleep. John had managed to get him to drink a little water during the few minutes he was awake, probably due to the fact that Sherlock didn't even realize what was happening around him.

It didn't help anything though. By 11 AM Sherlock's condition had worsened so much that John knew instantly, it was time for him to say his goodbye, too, just like the others had done the day before.

He gathered Sherlock into his arms ('God, he doesn't weight anything!'), and held on tightly.

"You idiot. You do know how much you mean to me – to everyone –, don't you? If we didn't love you so much, we couldn't bear to make such a big sacrifice for you… but we understand what you have been going through all your life, and we're able to let you go. We want you to be content, and carefree, and most of all: to not hurt anymore. So, Sherlock, please, just promise me one thing: promise me that you'll be happy, wherever you're going to be. Find that old dog, Redbeard, of yours, and all your long-lost relatives. God, just think about it, how many Holmes family members can there be!? What a mess. And please, don't forget us because one day, we'll be together again and you can insult all of us to your heart's content forever. Goodbye, best friend!" – John wept as he felt Sherlock slip away, never to wake up again.


End file.
